For the Greater Good
by Forge2
Summary: The Order is failing but Hermione has a plan. To reach across dimensions to a world where Riddle was vanquished, a utopia where wizards and muggles live together under a benevolent dictatorship and Harold Potter is the heir of Dumbledore and Grindelwald.
1. A Cry in the Dark

Summery: In a world where the Order failed and Voldemort reigns supreme, Hermione concocts a desperate brilliant scheme to reach across dimensions and find a world where Voldemort was defeated and ask for help. And they find such a world, a world where Riddle was vanquished, a utopia where wizards and muggles live together under a benevolent dictatorship and Harold James Potter is the heir apparent of Lords Dumbledore and Grindelwald.

Chapter One: A Cry in the Dark 

Ron Weasley limped slowly down the corridor. Every step sent pain shooting up his leg, courtesy of a ricocheting curse. The mediwitches had barely managed to preserve his leg, so he was thankful for any mobility, however painful. He came to a halt, gathering his energy. It was going to be a long and draining night, and he might not be able to run anymore, but they'd needed as many wand wielders as possible to make Hermione's plan work. Even Remus and Charlie were here, the largest gathering of the Order since the failed Azkaban raid three years ago. But despite the increased wizard power…well Ron hadn't felt particularly optimistic in some time now.

Two former Aurors stood on guard outside the classroom. They snapped to attention, albeit sloppily, as Ron approached. Some habits were hard to break. Ron gave them a brief nod of recognition. He made a point of not getting too close to anyone, he'd lost too many people and not just to death either. He entered the classroom slowly and glanced around. The room had been cleared, though chairs lined the walls. He could see Charlie slumped over sleeping. Tonks and Remus didn't look much better, their eyes dark with exhaustion. Her once vibrant hair was dark, and his was filled with more than a hint of grey. The war had not been kind to the Lupins. Ron sank gingerly into a chair and a groan caught in his throat. He hated being this weak. He was meant to stand shoulder to shoulder with Harry and Hermione, not hobble about. No the war hadn't been kind to anyone.

Only Luna seemed to have miraculously stayed the same, staring off dreamily into space. Her wand tucked firmly behind her ear. "Hello Ronald," she said. She tilted her head slightly to peer at him with the same wide eyes as ever. But he'd known her for years now. Could read the weariness in her eyes, perhaps he still would have been fooled but he had heard her crying in the night. He smiled tightly at her but it didn't reach his eyes. It never reached his eyes. Luna nodded in understanding and returned to staring at nothing in particular.

Hermione and Flitwick were hard at work in the center of the room. They had painstakingly drawn a pentagram on the ground. Ron thought he recognized runes for distance, journey, safety, victory and a multitude of others that he didn't know. They were now creating two overlapping Diamonds of Protection, a wise precaution. Even Voldemort would have to pause in the face of two Diamonds, not for long, but anything that could make Voldemort pause, stopped almost everything else in its tracks. They door swung open again and Slughorn and Shacklebolt entered. That just left Harry and Ginny. Ron glanced around the room. Only twenty left of the core of the Order. There used to be so many more. The door swung open a final time to admit Ginny and Harry. They were dirty and tired with burn marks on their face and cloths. Ginny sat gratefully but Harry turned to face the pentagram. He frowned slightly. "Hermione," he asked.

"Almost done," she said without turning. With a swish and flick she finished her protection spell. She glanced down and nodded at the aging Flitwick, who looked as if he wanted to give her 10 points for excellent charms work. Of course she wasn't a student anymore, and wasn't a teacher but it's the thought that counts.

"We're ready," Flitwick said. A murmur went through the Order. Ron could see hope and desperation in their faces. Not everyone was convinced this would work, but everyone knew it had to. They'd been loosing ground steadily since the Ministry had gone into exile. Hermione's plan was the Order's last gasp and everyone knew it. "Positions please." Flitwick smiled wanly. Ron rose slowly, his leg protesting painfully. The others formed a loose circle around the pentagram, just outside the confines of the diamond of protection. Ron took his place at Harry's side and glanced over at Hermione. Hermione nodded. Her feature's softening slightly. Harry gave a boyish grin that he practiced in front of the mirror. Ron smiled back and it almost reached his eyes. The Trio side by side, for a moment everything was as it should be.

"Everyone knows what to do?" Hermione glanced around the circle. They nodded grimly. She let out a deep breath. "Ok let's do this." She drew a dagger and contemplated at it for a moment. Then with a swift motion she sliced open her palms, two shallow cuts. The dagger went around the circle, as one by the Order members followed her example. No one so much as whimpered, and there was barely a flinch among them. This was Voldemort's England; pain was a way of life. Finally the knife came to Ron and he swallowed his disgust. This was old magic, blood magic, practically dark in nature, but it was necessary. And he knew everyone in this room would gladly give up a piece of their soul for the greater good. A moment latter it was done and they all joined hands, a circle of blood. Merlin he hoped this worked. Hermione gave his hand a quick squeeze. He met her eyes. She was desperate, cold, and tired, but she was Hermione and she was beautiful so very beautiful. Ron squeezed her hand back. She smiled grimly and then they began to chant. Ron didn't know the language, didn't know what the guttural sounds meant, but they'd all spent months learning the spell phonetically. Long tedious months, saying them over and over again, until he'd started hearing them in his sleep. Again and again they chanted while their blood mixed, but nothing seemed to happen.

Then the runes began to glow with a strange golden light. Ron could see the surprise written in the other's face, and his heart swelled. Maybe this would work. Just have to keep chanting. On and on the chant went. The pentagram was glowing now, brighter and brighter as it began to spin round and round. The carefully drawn lines began to shift and blur merging with the runes to become a single whirlpool of light. The light swirled inward faster and faster, until suspended in the air at the exact center of the circle was a small compact sphere of light no more than a centimeter in diameter. For a moment it just hung there glowing. Then without warning it exploded outwards. The energy burnt through the first diamond of protection in seconds and stuck the second with a loud bang. The whole room shuddered sending the Order sprawling to the ground, but the protection held and the light subsided.

Ron couldn't help the moan of pain that escaped. He'd landed squarely on his back. Glancing around he saw the others weren't in any better shape. Perhaps three diamonds would have been better. Harry and Hermione both reached down to help him up. He rubbed his leg grimacing. Oh brilliant! He wasn't going to get much sleep tonight was he? The floor was charred. The symbols Hermione and Flitwick had so carefully drawn were burnt into the stone, but that's not what was attracting everyone's attention. There was a man crouched in the center of the scorched pentagram.

It had worked! Ron clutched Hermione's hand tighter. Almost afraid to believe. The figure's face was hidden under a mop of dark hair. Everyone held their breath. Ron could feel the excitement building. Could it be? Suddenly the man's head snapped up and he rose to his feet in a single fluid motion. One moment he was bent over the next he was standing tall. He was dressed elegantly in a green silk shirt and tie. His vest and coat were the purest black inlayed with dark threads of arcane symbols almost unperceivable. He had a rosette pinned to his lapel. The man with a rosette stood deceptively still, but his eyes quickly scanned the room missing nothing.

His eyes! Ron couldn't restrain a gasp of shock. He thought he'd been prepared, but the reality was mind numbing. He could feel Harry tense next to him. They all knew the man's face, knew it as well as their own, if not better. From the scar in shape of lightning, to the emerald eyes ensconced behind silver frames. But there was something wrong, and somehow the familiar features seemed alien. Ron had known Harry for over a decade now, had seen him brooding, angry, vengeful even, but the Man with a Rosette's face was blank, devoid of even the barest hint of emotion. His eyes at last rested upon Harry. Emerald eyes met their twin, and for a moment it seemed as if the universe itself held it's breath. Then the Man with a Rosette tilted his head inquisitively.

"My name is Harold Potter," he said. "Who might you be?"


	2. Kidnapped

Chapter Two: Kidnapped!

The torches flickered, casting a sickly green glow about the chamber. Tall pillars entwined with serpents reached up disappearing into darkness. At the far end of the long hall stood a mighty statue of fresh hewed stone. At its base upon obsidian throne sat the man himself—Lord Voldemort. This was his throne room, his sanctuary. Built in honor of his great victory and as a memorial to those brave men and women who gave their lives for his cause, for him. Not that he particularly cared about their sacrifices. The weak shall fall…or follow. Thus was the nature of all things. But never let it be said that Lord Voldemort was not merciful, not just, not wise. He was the very picture of the Pure-blood Kings of old. Terrible in war, and wise in peace. Or at the very least, slightly less terrible. Appearance were everything. The ICW was inclined to accept him as the de facto ruler of the British Isles, but more so if he played the role of the noble and fair leader. One day it would be unnecessary. One day his supremacy of all Wizard Kind would be acknowledged, but that day still existed but in dreams.

As Voldemort sat alone in the dark, he turned his thoughts to the strange pulse he had felt not an hour ago. He had felt the magic, strange and unfamiliar like an itch at the back of his head. For the first in years, Voldemort felt the vague stirrings of uncertainty. His victory was nearly complete. Only the remnants of Dumbledore's Order remained, a mere handful of irritants. They had briefly attempted to destroy his Horcruxes, but the retaliation had all but eradicated them. Oh Voldemort knew that Potter was still alive, but that was no longer a primary concern. The Prophecy that had so consumed his mind was now all but irrelevant. He had an Army. He had his Horcruxes. Potter had an ever-dwindling number of veterans past their prime and school children. But experience was a cruel teacher and had taught Voldemort well, what was it now teaching to Potter and his little band?

For him to have felt such even the slightest itch, the spell must have been strong indeed, very strong. None of his subjects would dare perform so great a spell without informing him. The mudbloods, even if they possessed the knowledge, were fenced and wandless. No the Order was behind the spell, whatever it was, and that was troubling. He knew how guerilla warfare was waged, could anticipate their tactics. He understood the assault on Azkaban, and the quest for Horcruxes. But this was bigger than just a few raids. Worse than that, it was unknown and that was dangerous. Voldemort hissed softly to himself, and pondered stratagems long into the night.

Trapped within the Diamond of Protection, the Man with a Rosette watched. The Order shifted nervously under his unwavering gaze. He saw the grimace of pain flash across Ron's familiar face, the lines of exhaustion under Hermione's eyes. He noted Ginny's comforting hand upon his counterpart's shoulder, the Luna's wide-eyed stare. The silence stretched on uncomfortably. Tonks shifted slightly from one foot to the other. Remus tightened his grip on his wand, until his knuckles were white. Still the Man with a Rosette waited. He had been brought here for a purpose. It was obviously very important to them. People don't break through dimensions on a whim. He could be patient. They could not.

Harry barely felt Ginny's hand. His attention was devoted almost entirely on the Man with a Rosette, on Harold Potter. That was the face he saw in the mirror every morning. But he had never held himself so still. Harry was restless energy and quiet introspection. Harold was none of these things. On the contrary his body seemed relaxed. His eyes darted about noticing everything, revealing nothing. He had to know he was trapped. Where was the anger, the demand for answers that would have been on Harry's tongue? How could he be so damn calm? Harry ached to ask so many questions. He wanted to scream in frustration at his counterpart. Ginny squeezed his shoulder. Reassuring, comforting, real. The Man with a Rosette tilted his head slightly studying the two of them dispassionately. There was no curiosity in his gaze, nor emotion of any kind.

Finally Hermione broke the silence. Logically and directly she explained their situation. The four years of desperate fighting that had beaten them down. The desperate gleam of an idea that had consumed her. Harry could remember each one of those days. He glanced around. They were hanging on by a thread. Some even less. As she spoke Harold's gaze never wavered, his expression never changed. Then at last her plea had ended, and twenty expectant eyes turned upon him. Harold glanced at her over the rims of his glasses in a gesture so characteristically Dumbledore, that Harry felt a pang of sadness. Then Harold Potter smiled a queer little smile devoid of warmth.

"Am I supposed to feel pity for my jailers," he asked. "am I to abandon all my responsibilities to help them deal with theirs?" His eyes flicked towards Harry. "You have a Boy-Who-Lived of your very own. Do you want me to hold his hand and teach how to be a hero or take his place?" Harold's smile was distinctly unpleasant. "The Voldemort who marked me as his equal is dead. You should fight your own battle. I have duties of my own."

"Like what? Your war is over."

"And the Reconstruction is just beginning."

"I'm sure it would go just fine without you," Bill glared angrily.

"Would it," Harold met his eyes unblinking. "Would it really?"

"Listen we just want to know how you won," Hermione said.

"Well I didn't certainly didn't do it alone."

"We can help," Hermione said. Harold raised an eyebrow and glanced pointedly at the Order's shabby clothes.

"Pardon me, but for some reason I can't quite seem to trust my kidnappers." He struck the invisible barrier softly for emphasis. The diamond of protection flared to life, glowing angrily. "Returning me to my proper dimension would go a long way towards building trust and would place your request in a far more favorable light."

"I can't do that." Hermione crossed her arms.

"Can't or won't?"

"Won't. We have no choice and unless you want Voldemort to kill you, neither do you."

"Assuming of course that I'm stuck here." Harold folded his hands in front of his chest. Harry frowned slightly. He recognized the ring on his counterpart's finger, but couldn't quite place it. "I have a Hermione too," Harold continued. "And she has certain…advantages." He smirked.

Far away, beyond the veil that separates one reality from another, a young woman walked briskly down a long hallway. Her arms were laden with books and folders. Her steps were light and confidant. The portraits lining the walls waved familiarly at her. Finally she stopped at the end of the hall in front of an old oak door with a bumblebee painted on it. She shifted her books to one arm and reached up to knock.

"Come in," a weak voice called. The door opened with a creak. Grumbling softly to herself, the young woman entered. The walls were a warm and welcoming shade of red. A fire crackled merrily. The young woman glanced around. She'd always loved this room. The old weathered books, the silver instruments, and the irreverent statue of a goat resting on the mantelpiece. She felt at home here. A hacking cough interrupted her thoughts. She turned. The last of the Dumbledore's lay dying on the bed. "Come Hermione, sit by me." Hermione forced down tears and sat by the bedside, placing her books on the nightstand.

"I'm sorry to bother you," she began.

"Now, now you're never a bother my dear."

Hermione managed a brief smile. "Harold's gone. Vanished right in front of me. I think I know what happened, but I'm going to need your help to get him back."

The old woman patted Hermione's hand reassuringly. "Then you have it," Ariana Dumbledore said and somewhere a phoenix began to sing.


	3. The State of Things

Chapter Three: The State of Things

Harold stared at the outstretched hand raising a contemptuous eyebrow. He glanced around at the tired dirty faces around him. A few shuffled guiltily, and Harry had the grace to look uncomfortable. Though the entire situation seemed to have unnerved him slightly. The looks he and Ginny exchanged had not escaped Harold's notice. So the sympathy in her eyes was unsurprising. He acknowledged the sentiment with a nod.

"Do you honestly expect me to relinquish my only means of defense," Harold asked. Ron's eyes hardened slightly.

"You're among friends," Hermione said.

"Am I? If that were so, you would let me keep my wand."

"Nothing personal," Ron said. "But we don't know you. Constant diligence." There were nods all around. Harold studied the redhead. Crippled leg, hard jaded eyes masking a pain and anger burning to be unleashed. It reminded Harold of how his Ron had been before…Harold blinked the thought away. No use dwelling. He understood the man in front of him. Could trust him to be immutably Ron. The others though were twisted and distorted, even Hermione's tired face felt wrong. He distrusted the similarities almost as much as the differences, but Ron was comforting. Harold let the silence stretch uncomfortably. He didn't mind handing over his wand, having taken their measure and found them harmless, mostly. But their reactions were…informative, and that's what he was in desperate need of, information.

"Indeed," he said at last. Then with a flick of his wrist, he was armed. He held his wand lightly, but a mere swish and flick from going on the offensive. There was nothing in either his posture or his eyes that gave even the smallest hint of his intentions. Almost immediately every wand was trained on him. Experience had taught them to be careful, to curse first and ask questions later. It was better to apologize for an unnecessary action, then to die because you failed to act. Harold studied their stances, reading their style and skill. Slowly deliberately he moved to face his counterpart.

Harry was coiled and ready, his stance that of one who relies more on speed and agility then raw power. Harold approved. Ginny, he noted, had taken an instinctive flanking position, ready to follow Harry's lead. A good team in more ways than one. "Holly and phoenix feather," Harold said suddenly. "11 inches. I present it to you to be its keeper in my stead. Take good care of it." He offered it formally to his counterpart, bowing ever so slightly. Harry took the wand gingerly, as if in shock. He stared at it in awe, before turning his gaze to his other hand where rested the wand's twin, its replica. He could feel the familiar surge of warmth. This was his wand, they were both his wand.

"They're identical," Harry muttered. Harold nodded silently. He'd noticed that almost immediately. The Order exchanged glances. The purebloods among them recognized the ancient ceremony that Harold had just enacted perfectly, albeit mockingly.

"Now that I have demonstrated a ridiculous amount of trust," he said, glaring slightly. "Perhaps it is time for you to return the favor. After all, as I understand it, you summoned me to be an ally." Tonks pouted slightly. A wave of guilt seemed to pass through the Order, well most of them. Remus and Bill frowned. Good, they had noticed his little games. About time someone did. Though Harold supposed it was all a matter of expectations. His counterpart seemed very Gryffindorish, so the Order was allowing preconceived notions color their observations. He idly wondered why Albus had permitted such a weakness to persist, but he could wait. Answers would come in time.

"I'm sorry," Remus steeped forward with an apologetic smile. "We haven't been very good hosts have we?" Something primal stirred behind his eyes. So the wolf wanted to play…

"Perfectly understandable," Harold shrugged. "No point in holding grudges." He reached into his coat and withdrew a small crumpled paper-bag. "Lemon drop," he offered. His eyes twinkled brightly at Remus. This should prove to be most diverting.

Hermione Granger tossed her quill aside in frustration. This was not progressing as quickly as she had hoped. While Ariana Dumbledore might be the foremost authority on blood magic, she was also frail and prone to exhaustion. Soon she would be joining her brothers on the next great adventure. Hermione couldn't help but smile gently, as Ariana snored softly. She'd known the older woman almost her entire life. Being friends with the Boy Who Lived had opened doors to the most prestigious and gifted minds of the age, and little Hermione had not hesitated to make use of the opportunity. While Ariana wasn't as powerful as her oldest brother, she was always willing to answer questions. There had been an incident which had left her psychologically unable to perform magic from an early age. She never elaborated, and Hermione never asked. But over the decades, Ariana had read and devoured information regarding every possible branch of magic, until her knowledge outstripped even that of her two brothers and of Grindelwald himself.

Hermione restrained herself from shaking her awake. The old woman was clutching to life by a thread, and Harold would never forgive her, or himself, if this was what snapped the thread. No it was better to let Ariana sleep. Her mind would be more agile then, but the delay was infuriating. Hermione had never learned the patience that had been drilled into Harold. Discovering the spell had been relatively easy. The burn marks left an unmistakable clue, and Ariana had immediately known where to look. Harold Potter had been snatched across dimensions, for what purpose Hermione could only imagine. But to assume that those on the other side were friendly would be folly.

A rescue operation was planned. Members of the Phoenix Order, the Ehrengarde, and the Legion had already been assembled. It was a small team but politics demanded that all three groups be represented. Unfortunately the spell she'd found would have to be cast each time a crossing was attempted, and it was a long and laborious process, which could not be achieved in a combat situation. She had spent several hours now attempting to condense the ritual, but her grasp on magical theory was not quite equal to the task. There were too many variables to take into account, too many uncertainties. Perhaps if Grindelwald and Dumbledore were still alive, they might have been able to achieve it together, but Hermione, the smartest witch of her generation, wasn't equal to either of them, let alone both together. There had to be another way.

"A bridge." Hermione frowned. Where had that come from? "A bridge," Ariana repeated, and then began to cough weakly. "Don't make a hole, make a bridge." Hermione blinked.

By anchoring the breach on both ends," she breathed, magical formulas already swarming through her head. That was the spark she needed, the inspiration, an idea so utterly Dumbledore. Now all she had to do was make it work, but after all, that's what she excelled at.

"The Dark Lord has control of everything," Hermione said. "Rufus Scrimgeour makes some noise, but there's nothing he can do."

"Not that he'd do anything anyway," Harry said. "Says he doesn't approve of vigilante groups. Well we're the ones fighting. Where was he at Azkaban? Where was he at the Battle of Hogwarts? Won't even send any Aurors. "

Harold looked up from his plate. The cafeteria was crowded. The entire Order grouped around him, while he ate slowly. "The Ministry," he asked lightly.

"In exile," Hermione answered. Harold raised an eyebrow. "The fact is that Voldemort is Wizarding Britain. He's set up a parliament of sorts, but Malfoy does little without his Lord's permission."

"You're saying the war is over," Harold asked, as he took another bite of chicken.

"We're just an annoyance," Ron said. "We fought the big battle, poured everything we had into Hogwarts, but it wasn't enough. Most of the Order is dead now, or rotting in Azkaban. We still broadcast on the wireless, and make a few raids, but the snatchers are everywhere."

"What do snatchers…snatch," Harold asked.

"Muggle-borns mostly. Blood traitors, dissenters, and well…us."

"How efficient."

"It's horrible," Hermione said sharply. The visitor's detached air was starting to annoy her. "They snap the muggle-born's wands and send most of them to the labor camps."

"And what of Voldemort," Harold wiped his mouth daintily. "does he still have his…advantages?"

"The Horcruxes," Hermione asked. He nodded. "We destroyed four: the Diary, the Cup, the Locket and the…"

"Ring," Harry cried. Ignoring the concerned glances, he pointed at Harold's hand, which bore a large clumsy ring with a stone set in it. "I knew I'd seen it before. That's a Horcrux."

"It was," Harold admitted.

"Why are you wearing it," Harry demanded. The last time he'd seen it was on Dumbledore's blackened finger.

Harold blinked, and for a brief moment he looked surprised. "Just a memento." He recovered quickly, and Harry could almost believe he'd imagined it. Almost. Remus was leaning forward slightly with a thoughtful frown. That was the first honest emotion Harold had showed so far, but why because of the ring? "So you lot have lost the war and now you want me to clean up your mess," Harold said. "And how exactly am I supposed to accomplish this? With a wink and a nod? Ask politely?"

"Well…um…we were hoping you'd tell us?"

Harold snorted. "I see you've given this a great deal of thought."

"We cast the spell to bring us the one best suited to defeating Voldemort."

"And you got me," Harold said. "Brilliant! I'm afraid suicide is not particularly high on my list."

"You have to help us," Ginny said.

"Why," Harold met her glare. "I've already won this war, and I don't have the urge to do so again. Certainly not with only your little rag tag band of stalwart heroes to help me. Do you know what happens to heroes?" He turned to Harry. "They die and the world moves on. It's as simple as that." He smiled but there was no warmth in his eyes. "If you really want my help, and you certainly need it, then we'll do it my way."

"What's your way then," Bill demanded. Almost everyone was glaring angrily.

"I'll need to go home and make some preparations before returning to meet with this Mr. Scrimgeour of yours."

"Scrimgeour!!" Several voices said at once.

"Yes Scrimgeour," Harold said, unfazed by their glowers. "Your government and I must have some sort of understanding before I take action on their soil. Personally I think that's particularly generous of me, considering that my world has difficulties of it's own. Perhaps our problems could solve each other." He smirked. "that is my offer and the only why I could be effective."

"Scrimgeour is never effective," Harry said.

"But we are," Harold said. Silence fell louder than the greatest noise. "Well I've had a long day." Harold yawned. "Perhaps while your pondering, someone could show me to my bed." Harold Potter smiled, and his eyes twinkled softly.

Corporal Gilford Rayne snapped to attention. "My men are ready for deployment, Mame," he said.

"At ease Corporal," Hermione said. "We'll be leaving shortly. Have them get into position." He saluted smartly then left. There were two others like him in fatigues, badges on their shoulder's proudly proclaiming them to be from the Muggle Legions. Their uniforms were made from specially charmed materials and they each wore a manufactured protection amulet around their neck. They were the elite, the only muggles who were allowed to fight in the wizard's wars. Crouched over the pentagram burn mark were three dark figures. "Gavrilov," Hermione said. One of the figures rose and approached her. His hair was streaked with white and the markings on his coat proclaimed him to be one of Grindelwald's Ehrengarde.

"Ms. Granger," he asked politely.

"Where's the Order?"

"Black said something about guests," Gavrilov smiled unpleasantly.

"I hope they hurry up. This spell could take all night." Hermione growled softly. Gavrilov said nothing, but then he wasn't expected to. Hermione's watch ticked loudly. The Ehrengarde muttered softly to each other, while the muggles checked their weapons. Hermione fought to keep still. Fidgeting would do no good. Finally the doors swung open and a group of five entered. Two walked slowly, their hands and feet in shackles. One man and one woman. Dark eyes peered out of deep blackened sockets. Their hands were boney and their face skeletal, one could almost believe that they were corpses, save for the hatred that shone in their eyes, that had survived the gloom of Azkaban. They were flanked by three in dark gray battle robes, the Phoenix Emblem proudly displayed. They came to a halt and their leader gave a short aristocratic nod.

"Granger," he acknowledged.

"Black," she said. "I see you've brought our guests."

"Indeed. Care to tell me why. The Wizengamot was reluctant to let them go."

"I require an anchor on both ends," she said. His eyes widened in understanding.

"A blood ritual," he said. She dipped her head in agreement.

"Yes. Bella looks weaker to me." She nodded at the chained woman. Black shrugged. "We'll use her first." Hermione withdrew a jeweled dagger from her robes and offered it to him. "Perhaps you'd like to do the honors, Regulus."


	4. Bridgehead

Chapter Four: Bridgehead

Harry sighed in relief as he sank onto the bed. It had been a long day. He'd been sloppy and the Snatchers had almost caught him, would have too if Ginny hadn't disobeyed and come to rescue him. They needed to have a talk about that soon, but it'd only turn into a shouting match and he was too tired, too drained. Besides she'd win in the end, like she always did and he didn't want to be alone tonight. He closed his eyes. Wordless thoughts, half-formed ideas swirled through his head. It was no use. He just wanted to sleep, wanted the blissful escape of sweet repose. Just a few hours, was that too much to ask? Two identical wands sat on the table. Emerald eyes gazed at him. "Lemon Drop?"

Harry sat up running a hand through his hair. Damn it! Too many thoughts. He just wanted some sleep. His head felt so heavy and the world seemed to spin slightly around him. He let his head fall slightly to rest in his hands. He could feel exhaustion take hold. Weakness seeped into his bones. Tick tock went the clock. Tick tock. He counted. Anything to distract him. Tick tock. The door closed with a bang startling Harry. He turned in a flash, his hand itching for the comfort of a wand. Adrenaline coursed through him. He'd been caught off guard…he was never caught off guard. Not when even the slightest distraction could mean your death. His practiced eyes judged the red-haired intruder, tried to read her intent. His tired mind reacting purely on instinct. He exhaled, his brain finally catching up. It was just Ginny. He was safe.

"You know," she said with a coy smile. "I think he's kinda cute."

"Ginny."

"No really. That voice, those eyes…nice bum too." Her eyes twinkled softly.

"Please, Ginny." She frowned at his hunched figure.

"Come on Harry." She sat. "I was only teasing."

"I know. Please just tease me later." There was a note of pleading in his voice that surprised her. She reached out and began to run her fingers through his hair.

"I thought you had prepared for this." She lifted his head gently.

"No." He shook his head slightly. "Not this. 'The one best suited to help us.' You all thought it would be another me, but I was sure, I was so sure it would be Dumbledore." She rubbed his back, slow soothing circles. Gradually he began to relax. The tension easing out of him. "I thought…"

"Shush," Ginny said. "I know."

"I just want to see him again," Harry continued. "I have so many questions, so many things I wanted to tell him. I really thought it would be him in that circle. Of all the people who've died for me, he's the one I most…almost more than…" His voice caught.

"More than your parents," she finished for him.

"Yeah." A sob died in his throat. "Is that…Ginny is that wrong of me?" "His eyes pleaded with her.

"No," she said at length. "You miss him."

He turned away. "I miss my parents," he said bitterly.

"You miss the idea of them." She reacted out tentatively. "But with Dumbledore, you miss the man." He leaned into her embrace. "It'll work out Harry. I know it will." They stayed like that for a long time as the clock continued its monotonous ticking. This was the real Harry, the lost little boy cracking under the pressure, not the confidant warrior he presented to the world. Not even Ron and Hermione saw him like this. That was not to say that he wasn't a fighter. Oh no! He'd fight every day until the end of the war, one way or the other. But to be the brave warrior of the light, he had to be the lost boy. He saved her life every day, and she saved him every night.

This was different though. Ginny knew Harry better than anyone. Knew the twisted threads of guilt and duty that composed him. The other Potter had touched a hundred different threads at once. Notes of sorrow, guilt, anger, and insecurities all resounded through him, and she could hear them all.

"Is he what you were expecting?" Harry's voice startled Ginny from her thoughts.

"Honestly I'm not sure what I was expecting."

"He…me…" Harry laughed but there was no real humor in it. "You know what I mean. He has a point. This is my war not his. Voldemort marked me. I'm the one who has to kill him. Even if it had been Dumbledore like I hoped, in the end it's me against him."

"You're not alone."

"No I'm not." He smiled. "You can fight with me but you can't fight for me. No one can. Not even alternate versions of me."

"Then he'll fight with you."

"Will he? I'm not so sure. He's so different. It's like looking in a mirror, then he opens his mouth."

"He'll help." Ginny nodded confidently. "You're more alike than either of you think."

"He's manipulating us," Remus said. He sat wearily. Full moon soon. He could feel the beast inside growling, gathering strength. It was getting harder and harder to fight the call of the moon.

"Harry is many things," said Tonks. "But he doesn't have a manipulative bone in his body."

"Out Harry maybe," Remus conceded. "but we don't know anything about our guest. He's seen our Headquarters and learned our situation, while we still know next to nothing about him."

"He's Harry. What else do we need to know?" Tonks frowned.

"He's Harold." Remus corrected. "He's been watching and analyzing our every move since we brought him here, like a wolf observing his prey."

"You think he's a…" Tonks sat up.

"No!" Remus shook his head emphatically. "He wouldn't have been able to hide that with Bill and I in the room, but the wolf recognized him as a predator."

"What's that mean?" Tonks had learned to trust Remus' primal instincts.

"Nothing in and of itself. No matter how much he would have denied it, Albus was a predator too. Something happened in that other world to make Harold that way because while our Harry's a soldier and a leader, he isn't a predator. If we want Harold's help we have to stop expecting him to act like Harry. They're different people. I just hope that's a good thing." He met Tonks' worried eyes. He wanted to reassure her, but he couldn't find the strength to lie.

Down the corridor, past the clumsy children's drawings and fading school reports still proudly pinned to the wall, two wizards stood vigil. They didn't know who they were guarding. Perhaps a spy who had been Polyjuiced into Potter, perhaps a long lost twin. It didn't matter. Orders were orders. Their families were dead or rotting in Azkaban, and they had sworn to serve the Phoenix till victory or they too died. Sometimes that meant sneaking though Wizarding Britain and entering labor camps to provide food and hope. Sometimes it meant assassinating a witch as she walked down the street. Sometimes it meant torturing Death Eaters until they screamed their answers and howled their secret. And sometimes it meant guarding an unlocked door in the dead of the night.

On the other side of that door, the room was practically bare. The Order did not entertain many guests. A single bed with a lumpy mattress served as the only furniture. Two conjured orbs of fire circled around casting a soft blue light. On the bed the man from another world lay motionless. So still that he could almost be mistaken for a corpse. Then slowly he exhaled, breathing so slowly as to be nearly unperceivable, monotonously in and out, in and out. Harold James Potter did not dream. While all around people were whispering about him in excited voices, while Remus Lupin pondered long after Tonks had fallen asleep, while Ginny Weasley comforted her restless boyfriend, Harold Potter's mind was empty. Not even a single solitary thought fluttered across his consciousness. There was only the peace of blissful nothingness. And so he passed the night.

Harry strode into the cafeteria rubbing his eyes sleepily. Most of the Order was asleep at this hour, or still on night watch. He liked having these moments to himself. Alone in the early morning chill, the world seemed a distant dreamlike place. A cup of tea, a few slices of toast, and the momentary illusion of peace. For an hour all was right in his world. Except this time he was not alone. The first pale rays of light streamed in through the window, illuminating his counterpart engaging in a strangely friendly conversation with Luna Lovegood. Harry frowned and kept his eye on them as he waited for his toast. Two former Aurors stood on guard by the door. It had seemed a sensible precaution last night, but as Luna's bubbling laughter echoed in his ears, Harry couldn't help feel slightly guilty. Anyone who could make Luna laugh couldn't be too bad. It had been too long. Her father's death took a part of her away, left her just an echo.

Harry approached their table cautiously. His counterpart might be able to make Luna clap in delight, but that didn't mean he wanted to talk to him. Ginny had made him feel somewhat better, but there was something fundamentally wrong with the other Potter. It made Harry's skin crawl.

"Please join us." Harold didn't even look up. Harry sat, unnerved slightly.

"Good morning Harry," Luna said. "We were just discussing the Singing Sunbird of South Essex." Harry turned to his counterpart in annoyance, but couldn't find a trace of mockery in his face.

"I saw it once," Harold said. "A little disappointing actually…it sang off key." He shrugged.

"Well." Luna smiled. "I think I'll leave you alone with yourself." Harry started to protest but Luna was already skipping away humming happily. Harry blinked. She hadn't skipped in years. He turned back to find two familiar eyes regarding him silently. Harry ate uncomfortably.

"My eyes are really green," Harold said at length. "I always knew that of course, but I never realized quite how green." Harry glanced up uncertainly. There was something disquieting in Harold's tone. "So Harry, am I a prisoner? Cause it was hard to miss the armed guards outside my door last night."

"The door was unlocked," Harry said.

"Indeed, but I still had to spend a good fifteen minutes convincing them that a little jaunt to the cafeteria was ok."

"It's been a hard few years. Maybe we're a little paranoid."

"Maybe," Harold agreed. "Speaking of which, why is your HQ a muggle school of all places?"

"Problem with muggles?" Harry asked sharply.

"Not at all. Muggles can be most useful, but your location doesn't strike me as the most practical."

"It's the last place Voldemort would think to look. He's been scouring all of England for years now, but we've remained hidden in plain sight."

"Congratulations," Harold said. "Though forgive me if that seems to be your only victory to speak of."

Harry glared, but the anger quickly faded into fatigue. "After the Ministry fell we fought hard. When we attempted to free the political prisoners from Azkaban, we lost most of our number." Harry paused. So many dead. He could still see their faces, hear their dying screams. "The hunt for Horcruxes lasted a while, but our primary concern was to survive."

"Understandable," Harold said with a nod. "Survival is the prime motivation of all species. If I understood Hermione correctly, then Voldemort is down to three."

"Yeah, we managed to find the Cup and the Locket before we were forced to abandon the search."

"Presumably you destroyed the Diary in your second year." Harold's voice trailed off questioningly.

"Basilisk fang," Harry replied.

Harold smiled nostalgically. "And the Basilisk itself…?"

"Pulled Gryffindor's Sword from the Sorting Hat."

"Unorthodox," Harold said. "But obviously effective."

"You didn't…" Harold chuckled.

"Not exactly but essentially correct. We seem to have led a charmed life."

"Yeah." Harry chuckled ruefully. For the first time he felt about comfortable in his own presence. "It's not like I plan on it. I just have a…"

"Saving people thing." Harold interrupted. Green eyes met green eyes in understanding.

"You're going to help aren't you," Harry said. It was not a question.

"That's who I am." Harold said. Harry nodded. Maybe Ginny was right. Maybe they really were essentially the same. Then the alarms began to sound.

All through the night Voldemort had felt the itch grow steadily stronger. First it had felt faint, like the ghost of someone else's feeling. So far away that Voldemort wouldn't even have noticed, but he had been on alert waiting for just such an itch. This was ancient magic, deep magic. It tasted of dust and decay, smelled of flesh rotten through. It was dark and intoxicatingly powerful. Voldemort smirked. The Order had no idea what they were playing with. His smile faded. Neither did he, not really. Last time it had merely been a pulse, but he could feel it still. Even now the itch twisted and writhed in the back of his head. The strange alien power continued to build to an inexorable climax. Voldemort was attracted to its dark and glorious song, but what did it mean? What was that wretched Order up to? Voldemort needed to know. This was their last desperate gamble, and all the more dangerous for it. Knowledge was power, and Voldemort was blind. His enemies had concealed their movements well. He acknowledged their resourcefulness even as he cursed them. You can always judge a man by the quality of his enemies.

For the first time in years, Voldemort stretched out his consciousness and followed the thin thread connection. Long fingers probed tentatively the connection with Potter. Voldemort had learned long ago that while this connection allowed him unprecedented opportunities to manipulate him, it also gave the little brat access to his plans. This was therefore a risky maneuver no matter what he told his servants. Slowly, softly he approached his opponent and could feel the waves of uncertainty, of apprehension, of anger and the calm that descended over them. So Potter was preparing for battle, but against whom?

Then Voldemort felt something he did not expect. The connection, the strange and utterly unique connection with Potter diverged inexplicably like a fork in the road. Cautiously he explored this new path. This thread was even more tenuous, as if the connection itself was uncertain whether it should exist or not. Voldemort bent all his will on this new development. It felt distant, almost removed from reality yet a part of it. Voldemort recognized the sensation. He had spent over a decade in such a state, but this was subtly different. There was substance and there was an unshakeable sense of wrongness. Then Voldemort struck an Occlumency shield the likes of which he had never before encountered. He probed and prodded but the shield held. Voldemort could feel the other mind observing him coolly. Voldemort struggled but the other's features remained shrouded in darkness, save for the eyes. Those emerald eyes glowed angrily at him.

"I see you," a voice rumbled. For a second Voldemort's mask slipped. That voice! He knew that voice. Voldemort retreated quickly and opened his own eyes. His head hurt, and the itch was still there, but he smiled. The mystery was solved. Lord Voldemort understood now.

Reality twisted and distorted. A deep and primal wrongness filled the air. The classroom was deserted. Plastic chairs still lined the room and a strange pentagram was burned into the floor. Then the world seemed to ripple and space folded back in on itself. Reality flicked and there was a portal where no portal had been. Lightning danced around its perimeter as it disgorged eleven figures. They were in perfect formation. A woman stood in the center. Her eyes were cold.

"Clear," Corporal Rayne said.

"Clear," Gavrilov echoed.

"Clear," Regulus agreed. The woman nodded. She glanced down at the manacled prisoner at her feet. He was in relatively good shape despite several years in Azkaban and his eyes blazed hatefully.

"Mudblood," the prisoner managed through gritted teeth. The woman's expression didn't alter. She drew her knife and casually slit his throat.

"Goodbye Malfoy," Hermione muttered. As the last of his life ebbed away, the portal seemed to solidify." Bridgehead established," Hermione said. "Move out."


	5. Skirmish

Chapter Five: Skirmish

14

Chapter Five: Skirmish

The curse missed Remus' head by less than an inch. He rolled to the left on instinct, firing a pair of Reductor Curses.

"How the hell did they get in?" Tonks asked. "The outer wards couldn't have fallen this quickly." He wand spat an array of hexes and jinxes, forcing the intruders to retreat around the corner momentarily.

"I don't think the outer wards were ever triggered," Remus answered. He had noticed what she had missed. Though clothed in dark robes, with hoods disguising their features, the intruders did not fight like Death Eaters. Their spells were on the darker side of grey, but compared to Voldemort's servants, they were snowy white. Besides no Death Eater would ever be caught sporting a Phoenix symbol, such as the small ones etched above the intruders' right breasts. "They're not Death Eaters," he called to Tonks. They had rallied and were approaching in an almost textbook Auror formation. The one in the center shrugged off an Impedimenta Curse with little effort. His hood fell back exposing achingly familiar features. Remus stared in shock. "Sirius," he breathed softly, half in despair, half in desperate hope. The man did not hesitate. His wand spewed forth purple flames. With a cry Tonks threw herself in the flames path. Her hasty shield nearly buckled under the heat of the fire.

"Pay attention, old man," she said sharply. Remus blinked. The concern in her voice called him back to reality. It wasn't Sirius, couldn't be Sirius. The beard was to neat, the nose too long.

"Fall back. We've been flanked," he said, and indeed they had. The intruders had executed a nearly perfect pincer move. Remus glanced over his shoulder as he and Tonks raced down the corridor. Remus knew that face. Not Sirius then, but a Black nonetheless, from beyond the grave. "Regulus," Remus snarled.

UUUUUUUUUU

"I can't hold it much longer," Charlie said through gritted teeth.

"Just a few more seconds," George whispered, as he and Shackbolt sent a bevy of curses under cover of his brother's shield. It had only been 15 minutes since they'd made contact with the enemy, but they'd already been forced to retreat up the stairs. Shackbolt had been one of the premier Aurors, and Charlie and George were no slouches, but however fast they cast their jinxes and hexes, the enemy fired that much faster. The constant stream of blasting charms was uncanny. No witch or wizard could possibly cast that fast. Charlie's shield finally collapsed under the onslaught, and before either of his companions could take his place, 10 curses were already upon them.

"Down!" Shackbolt ordered. The wall behind them shuddered at the impact and exploded in a shower of plaster and brick. Charlie coughed and peered up through the shower of debris. The enemy was taking advantage of the lull to advance quietly and take up firing positions. More importantly, they weren't carrying wands. None of them were. Charlie's mouth gaped in shock as one of them snapped a new magazine into place. He silently thanked his father for being so interested in Muggles. Guns! That was the word. They were all holding guns, guns that fired curses, but that should have been impossible. Another blasting curse exploded to his left, as if in answer to his unspoken disbelief.

"Kingsley," he called as he crawled for cover. "They're Muggles!"

"I know," Shackbolt replied grimly. "Piertotum Locomotor," he cried. Chunks of brick and concrete rose slowly and hung menacingly in the air. Then at a gesture, the debris was sent hurling towards the Muggles.

UUUUUUUUUU

Hermione rubbed the sleep from her eyes. It had been a long fitful night. The other Potter's apparent hostility had been unexpected, though she wasn't entirely sure what she had been expecting. Bringing the alternate Potter to this dimension had taken all her considerable knowledge and talents. It was an incredible feat. Perhaps even the magical achievement of the century, and in an era, which had seen Grindelwald, Voldemort and Dumbledore at the height of their powers, that was saying something. To have achieved so much and find Harold Potter seemingly unwilling to help them was not a recipe for a restful nights sleep. She shook her head to clear the alarms still ringing in her ears. She would personally Crucio whichever idiot had dared to mock Murphy, or she might just set Ginny onto them. The Unforgivable was probably more merciful.

"Report," Hermione said bursting into the Map Room. It had once been a Muggle science lab, but the Order had painstakingly converted it into the most heavily warded and secure room in the compound. Dominated by a huge map of the school, the room could be used to coordinate attacks or monitor the situation. In the years since his injury, Ron had claimed the room as his domain. He grimaced at Hermione in greeting and waved her over.

"There's ten of them," he said as she joined him in front of the map. "And they all originated from room 121."

She glanced at him sharply. "Where we brought Harold through?"

"Exactly." Ron nodded. With a gesture of his wand the Map shimmered focusing in on the first floor. Three dots sat in defensive positions outside room 121. "The others seem to be heading towards the cafeteria."

"What's in the cafeteria?"

"Both Potters," Ron answered. Hermione swore. In other circumstances he would have teased her for her language. "There's more. The surge of magic in there hasn't dropped. It's holding steady. Flitwick thinks they've opened a stable gateway, and it's leaking magic. Not enough to be noticeable yet, but I sent Bill to strengthen the wards. We must contain the magic at all costs. The last thing we need is for Voldemort to pinpoint our location."

"It's leaking that much?"

"Flitwick wasn't sure. He's gone to close the breach."

"This is a rescue mission," Hermione said after studying the map for a moment.

"Most definitely, and Harold knew they were coming. He practically warned us."

"Right then." Hermione's face was the picture of determination. She turned and marched towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

"The cafeteria," she called over her shoulder. "Maybe I can stop this before it becomes a blood bath."

UUUUUUUUUU

Flitwick studied his opponent with a practiced eye. Dawlish and Fred were holding their own against the other two intruders, but the third was a far more tricky opponent. He moved with the confidence and grace born from experience. In his youth, Flitwick had been a champion dueler, who owed his success to his great skill and his unassuming height. His opponent, on first glance, seemed no less experienced. The man's stance was not that of a dueler, but a fighter. His wand grip was an almost perfect balance between offense and defense. A curse and a shield were both a swish and flick away. He was cautious, then, and not overpowering, but capable. This would be a contest of skill and Flitwick welcomed it. There was no silly flourishing of wands, nor a puerile exchange of insults. They were both too old for that, too respectful. No one was sure who cast the first spell, but suddenly the air was alive with magic. The two opponents ducked and weaved about each other with an agility that belied their age.

Dawlish glanced up from his own duel to observe the two battling masters. His loyalty to the Ministry early in the war had not endeared him to many in the Order, but no one could deny his knowledge, or his competence. Even he had difficulty recognizing half the spells the two old pros were casting. A sudden sharp pain pulled his attention back to his own adversary. As blood trickled down his face, Dawlish berated himself for becoming distracted. He had his own battle to fight.

UUUUUUUUUU

Mist erupted from Regulus' wand in the shape of a silvery hand and enveloped Remus' throat, squeezing the life out of him. Remus brushed the hand away with a slash of his wand.

"You've been dead for years," he said.

"Funny Lupin," Regulus answered sidestepping a bludgeoning hex. "I was going to say the same thing about you."

"You're from the other side," Lupin said. It wasn't a question.

"Quick as ever." Regulus gave a mocking bow. Remus frowned. He had hoped to stall Regulus long enough for reinforcements to arrive, but Tonks couldn't hold off two wizards indefinitely, and no help seemed to be coming. Remus conjured a flock of birds and set them upon the other man. For a moment Regulus disappeared in a mass of flapping wings and pecking beaks, before a shockwave sent them careening into the walls and ceiling. A few birds managed to caw feebly and then were still. Regulus rose to his feet looking slightly worse for wear. His face was scratched and bloody and he coughed up feathers.

A series of cutting hexes forced Remus onto the defensive. His shield absorbed the first two, and he evaded the third, but the fourth caught him in the shoulder. He spun, biting back a cry of pain. He could feel the hex tear through muscle and ligament right down to the bone. His nerve endings were alive with fire. Remus grimaced channeling that pain and fire into his magic. Deep within something primal stirred. Not beaten yet. Not by a long shot.

Remus unleashed a great gust of wind. The blast sent Regulus careening through the air. He hit the far wall with a sickening crunch, and collapsed to the ground in a pile of rubble. Remus sagged. His knees felt weak and exhausted. Conjuring weather inside was risky and draining. He looked up at Tonks' shout of triumph. One of her foes was down. Remus felt himself smile. Perhaps they could win.

A chill went through him. Regulus was climbing out of the wreckage. He was covered in dust. His battle robes were torn. His face was bruised and bloody, but he was standing, albeit unsteadily, and he was angry. Remus swore under his breath. Where was the rest of the Order?

UUUUUUUUUU

Corporal Rayne smiled grimly. His protective amulet was almost depleted. A quick glance at his team confirmed that theirs were likewise expended. Not that the amulet was any guarantee of safety. They rendered him and his team impervious to any form of Muggle-repelling, and diluted the effects of most minor hexes and jinxes. Though a direct hit still did a world of damage as Private Harris had discovered earlier. The young man's arm hung by his side at an uncomfortable angle, the victim of a bone-shredding curse, but he could still fire a gun. Rayne nodded to himself. He was proud of his team. They had proved once again the viability of the Muggle Legions. Even the most liberal of Wizards had scoffed at the idea. 'Granger's Folly' they'd called it, but the unit had proven devastatingly effective during the campaign against Voldemort.

Rayne peered around the corner and fired. As the cartridges exited the barrel the containment dissolved and the curse activated. The Corporal saw the older black man duck for cover as the blasting curse passed over his head. It was an ingenious idea, though time consuming. Each cartridge had to be prepared individually, but they had made a surplus during the War, so Rayne had ammunition to burn.

"Report," ordered a voice behind him. Rayne whirled quickly to assess the threat. He relaxed immediately and saluted.

"One injury Ma'am," he said.

"And the enemy?" Granger asked.

"They're retreating in an organized fashion. Whoever's in charge over there is good."

"We're going to have to press the attack. Black has been stalled and Gavrilov is under attack. We're going to have to rescue the Premier ourselves."

"Yes Ma'am." Rayne smiled at his team. If they could pull this off, if Muggles could rescue the Premier when a team of Wizards failed, then no one could ever again belittle the Legion. No other justification or proof would be needed. By Dumbledore, they would not fail! "Ready suppression fire on my mark," he said. "Prepare to move out." They didn't need protection amulets anymore. They had a witch.

Gavrilov spat blood. The little man was good. Gavrilov had always known that, of course. Filius Flitwick's exploits were infamous back home. Grindelwald himself had been impressed, and Gavrilov knew from experience how hard it was to impress him. He leaned against the wall drawing strength from its solidarity. He was getting too old for this. Though Flitwick didn't look any better. The little man looked like he could barely stand let alone cast another spell. Gavrilov tilted his head listening. He could hear the sounds of battle around the corner. They were holding. He took a deep breath. They had to hold at all costs. The portal could not fall into enemy hands. That was his purpose.

Gavrilov straightened. He stood proud and erect. He would not fail. Anisim Gavrilov had been with Grindelwald since the beginning. He had fought in the Unification Wars, seen the first stone placed at Nurmengard. He was the last, the most faithful. He was the Ehrengarde. Gavrilov looked down into Flitwick's eyes. At this point in a duel, when both combatants were exhausted, it was vitally important to seize the initiative. Lightning crackled forth from Gavrilov's wand. He gathered it up in his hand fashioning it into a ball, and hurled it at Flitwick. The diminutive Wizard braced himself. The lightning struck his shield with a roar of thunder. The floor seemed to quiver, but when the lightning faded, Flitwick was still there, just as determined.

UUUUUUUUUU

Remus staggered under Tonks' weight. She could barely walk. The bones in he right leg had been shattered, and she was bleeding from various cuts. Remus, himself, was in only slightly better shape. He had managed to staunch his bleeding shoulder, but he could feel his magic reserves ebbing. He turned slightly, trying not to wince, and cast a pair of Reductor curses. His pursuers fell back out of sight, but only for a moment. Regulus had beaten him. He'd been just a little faster, just a little stronger. His style puzzled Remus. He had not fought merely as a son of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, but there had been hints of something else, something familiar. A fondness for transfiguration that Remus had seen in no other Black. Tonks moaned softly.

"Stay with me," Remus urged, but her eyes closed. "Nymphadora," he said sharply.

"Don't call me that," she muttered sleepily. Remus smiled in relief.

"Sorry," he said. "Try and stay awake. We're not safe yet." With effort Tonks forced her eyes open and nodded at him blearily.

"Oh my God!" They looked up to see Hermione running toward them. "Tonks, Professor! Let's get you out of here." She took Tonks' other arm. "We have to hurry. They're after Harold." Remus nodded bleakly. He and Hermione half dragged, half carried Tonks down the hall. Turning right they headed for the cafeteria. As they got closer, the sounds of battle got louder and louder. They turned the corner and found Charlie propped against the wall, breathing heavily. They set Tonks down gently next to him.

"How are we doing?" Hermione asked. Charlie just stared at her blankly. "Charlie?" He didn't respond. Hermione frowned at Remus, and peered around the next corner. Kingsley and George were fighting a rearguard action against what appeared to be a pair of Muggle soldiers and a witch. Hermione blinked. The Witch! Dear Merlin, the witch! Her hair was tied back in a tight braid. She wore dark battle robes with a rosette pinned to her chest, and her eyes were hard as flint, but her face…Hermione walked forward as if in a dream, and they stood facing each other. For a moment time stood still. The fighters on both sides stared. Glancing from one to the other, almost comically.

The Hermiones were the first to recover. They raised their wands practically in unison and cast the first spell to come into their minds. They had reacted on instinct. For if they had contemplated for but a moment, then they would not have been surprised by the result. For the first time in the history of the greater omniverse, a wand met itself in battle, not its twin, or brother, but the self-same wand. The spells collided in a burst of light, and when the glare had faded, a golden thread pulsed angrily between the tips of the two wands.

"Priori Incantatem," breathed Lupin. Both Hermiones stared in shock. This was different. The thread writhed this way and that, as if it were alive. They clasped their wands in both hands. This was not a contest of wills or power. The two witches were immaterial. The realities were struggling for dominance on a raw, primordial level. The great vastness of the entire universe, all the wonder and power was being channeled into one young woman and her wand. Through the portal poured forth an answering power, and the young woman's counterpart was its vessel.

While everyone's attention was riveted on the battling wands, another complimentary pair approached. Harry stared in utter shock. For the first time the concept of an entire alternate reality crystilized in his mind. Not just individuals but an entire world of doppelgangers. He stood rooted to the spot. The sheer amount of magic eminating from the golden thread was overwhelming. Behind him Harold watched though hooded eyes, his face a blank mask. Finally he strode forward, without the slightest hint of awe or hesitation.

"You know," Harold said. "I think someone should break this up." He snatched the holly wand from Harry's unresisting hand, and with a sharp flick, broke the connection. The gold thread faded like mist, and the magic in the air evaporated. Both Hermiones collapsed to the floor, breathing heavily. Harold waded calmly through the crowd. He reached down and pulled his Hermione to her feet.

"So," Harold said at length. "What took you so long?"


	6. Preliminary Talks

Chapter Six:

Chapter Six: Preliminary Talks

Harold leaned back waiting with a polite smile etched on his face. Behind him the Portal between Worlds crackled with raw magic. Harry blinked. Everything was happening so fast. It had only been an hour since they had last sat across the table from each other, but everything had changed. The faint sense of camaraderie that they had managed to build was lost. The Order was gathered around him, many now nursing wounds. Even with his arm in a sling, Remus was managing a formidable glare at what was apparently Regulus Black. Harry didn't understand how that was possible, and couldn't help the lump that formed in his throat at the deceptively familiar features. The two Hermiones looked unsteady on their feet, but had near identical looks of determination.

"So you're not going to help us," Fred said at length.

"I never said that," Harold replied.

"What exactly are you saying?" Ron asked.

"That the amount of aide I provide is contingent on other factors."

"In other words you'll only help as much as you feel like it," Bill said with a snarl.

"You should be thankful I am willing at all," Harold said. His eyes grew cold. "You kidnapped a Head of State, Mr. Weasley. That would be considered an act of war in most circles."

"And what do you call your attack then?"

"A rescue operation. The Hegemony does not negotiate with terrorists."

"Is that what we are?" Bill asked angrily.

"You tell me." They glared at each other for a moment, but Bill blinked first. Harold turned to face his counterpart, dismissing the red head.

"You're the Head of State?" Harry asked incredulously.

"I am the Supreme Commander of the Defense Forces of the Hegemony, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Premier of the Wand. As far as you are concerned, I am the Hegemony." He spoke softly without vanity or false modesty, simply stating the facts. "Regarding Voldemort we are in complete agreement. It is not the policy of my government to allow ethnic cleansing of any kind, least of all Voldemort's particular brand. However, my actions and by extension those of the Hegemony will be closely scrutinized in the weeks and months ahead. I'm sure you can see my problem." The Order frowned and glanced around uncertainly.

"You can't be seen to act unilaterally," Hermione said at last. She seemed to stir herself from her fugue state. "Theoretically you could open a portal anywhere. You could land troops without anyone knowing."

"Precisely," Harold said. "Something which I hope will prove a decisive advantage against Voldemort. However our sudden appearance will be frightening enough, without invading a country. Even as a liberation force, the Hegemony would be view as a dangerous aggressor. No! If I commit troops to your aide, it must be authorized loudly by some legal authority. Unfortunately that means Mr. Scrimgeour."

"And if he refuses?" Ron asked.

"Then my help will be more…limited, but I wouldn't worry if I were you. I can be very persuasive." Harold smirked. "In any case I will be leaving," he paused and glanced around noting the heated glares between Remus and Regulus. "Gavrilov," he said at last, "as my liaison. He will coordinate our joint efforts." Gavrilov bent his head in acknowledgement, before nodding at Flitwick. The little man returned the gesture. There was no hostility there. "Now if you'll excuse me," Harold said rising to his feet. "I'm going home." He sketched an aristocratic bow and spinning on his heels marched through the Portal without another word.

Lord Voldemort frowned. Even the delightful song of the mudblood's screaming could not put his mind at ease. Breaching the veil between worlds was an act of pure desperation. An impressive feat it rivaled even some of his own accomplishments. He had been caught off guard. In all his stratagems, he had never once contemplated this eventuality. Not once had even the merest inkling of the idea crossed his mind. He applauded his enemy's creativity and daring, but perhaps, there was opportunity here as well. Voldemort searched his memory recalling half forgotten rituals and spells. Rune Magic had never been his specialty, but if the Order could find a way, then he certainly would.

After all, if the Potter brat had a counterpart, then surely he, Lord Voldemort, did as well. No power in all of creation could stand against two Voldemorts fighting side by side. The Dark Lord felt almost giddy at the thought. All would bow before him! He paused. It was a powerful dream, but he knew himself too well. He would never dare trust himself. No, one Voldemort would have to suffice against a pair of Potters. He scoffed. It should be no difficulty, and yet there was something about the other Potter. He had not seen an Occlumency shield so powerful, since Dumbledore. There was something dangerously competent about the boy with a hint of the dark arts. The old fool would turn in his grave to learn that Potter, even an alternate Potter had delved into darkness. Still one man alone would not turn the tide, but if one comes then others would follow. The itch had not yet subsided, and Voldemort doubted it would. Footsteps interrupted his musings.

"Listen," Voldemort said preempting his servant. The mudblood's screaming was reaching a crescendo of pain. "Bella does so love her work," he turned. "Does she not, Minister?"

"My Lord." Lucius Malfoy kneeled.

"Report," Voldemort demanded.

"The Ministry has detected a mammoth source of magic."

"Yes, I felt it. Tell me Lucius, have you managed to locate this…source?"

"Somewhere in London, my Lord. The Unspeakables were unable to be more precise."

"Their wards held then," Voldemort mused. "You must find it for me, Lucius. The Order is gathering its strength for one final campaign. Scour London. Search every street. Find the source and you will find them. If we strike before they are ready, we will crush them." Voldemort smiled coldly. "You will not fail me." It was a command, and it was threat. Malfoy stood with a bow, and left. Voldemort did not watch him leave. The Dark Lord was engrossed in the song of agony.

The woman was alone in the garden. The first pale rays of light whispered through the trees caressing the flowers. Birds had gathered all about her, robins, chaffinches, and sparrows, but the most magnificent of all sat perched on high seemed to shine from within. As the day dawned, the Sunbird began to sing. It was not as haunting as the melodies of a Phoenix, and a trained ear would notice a stray note here and there, but the woman did not mind. A man had been meandering down the path, when the bird began. He had paused to watch the woman. His eyes soaked in her glee. With his tin ear, he could never appreciate the song of the Sunbird, but as always, her simple joy brought a smile to his face. When the song at last ended, the woman turned.

"You're back," Mrs. Potter said without surprise.

"I am," Harold agreed. She peered at him curiously.

"You brought something with you," she said. "Something new. I can see it fluttering about you like butterflies." She bit her lip thoughtfully as she gazed up into his eyes searching. Harold was silent. "Ah," she said. "There it is. The Humdingers were hiding it." She reached out and took Harold's hands in hers. "You have purpose again. You're practically overflowing."

"You noticed." Harold smiled bashfully.

"Of course I did, silly. I notice everything." She reached up to brush her lips against his softly. "She wants to see you," Luna Potter said leaning back. "As soon as possible."

"I know," Harold said. "But Ariana can wait."


	7. The Calm Before a Storm

Chapter Seven:

Chapter Seven: The Calm Before a Storm

Harold leaned in the doorway, watching the old woman sleep. She seemed so peaceful that it was easy to forget the sickness slowly gnawing through her. She had outlasted them all, surviving the Unification Wars, the Reconstruction, even the Pureblood Insurrection. In the end, however, her body betrayed her. Where hexes and angry mobs had failed, old age prevailed. Ariana Dumbledore was dying, and all the Doctors and Mediwitches in the world could not save her. Harold smiled softly as she stirred.

"You're back," she said sitting up slowly.

"Did you doubt it?" He asked. 

"Certainly not. I had every confidence in Hermione. Once she sets her mind to it, she's a force to be reckoned with."

"In any universe," Harold muttered. He sat at her bedside and reached out to clasp her hand. "How are you feeling?" He asked.

"I wish everyone would stop asking me that. It's all anyone ever wants to talk about these days. The Doctors come and take my blood. The Mediwitches pour potions down my throat for all the good it does. Elphias visited last week and just sat there starring at me, and that Skeeter woman keeps pestering me about her damn biography."

"I'll have a word with her about that, though I would like you to speak with her at some point."

"If you insist." Ariana grimaced. "That woman annoys me."

"She annoys a lot of people." Harold smirked. "It's part of her…charm." Ariana snorted in response. "Anyway, I understand you wanted to see me."

"I hear you've had an eventful few days." Ariana said peering up at him as if searching for something.

"You could say that." He agreed.

"Tell me everything," she commanded with a thoughtful frown. He obeyed.

Ron found Hermione in the Map Room, frowning at the ever-multiplying dots. Dozens had come through the portal in the past 24 hours: Cursebreakers, Ward Specialists, and Mediwitches. Ron knew he should feel hopeful, grateful. This was what they'd wanted after all. Real tangible help, perhaps not exactly what the Order had expected, but help none-the-less. Yet there was something bothering him, and judging by Hermione's expression he was not alone in his unease. She didn't spare him a glance as he hobbled next to her. All her attention was focused on the map. Ron doubted she'd even heard his approach, and that was worrying.

"I heard what happened," he said but Hermione remained silent. "Are you okay?" he asked after a moment.

"I'm fine," she said, but she wasn't. She tried to hide it but Ron knew her better than anyone. She hadn't been fine since the encounter with her doppelganger. "Where's Gavrilov?" She asked sharply. Ron studied her for a moment before shrugging.

"Coordinating with Flitwick. I think they might actually like each other. Don't worry though," he said. "I'll have someone watching him all the time."

"We're supposed to be allies," Hermione chided, but there was approval in her eyes.

"Then he should appreciate our concern for his safety," Ron said innocently.

"We'll make a politician of you yet," Hermione said smiling.

"Oi, no need to be insulting." Ron sobered quickly. "Gavrilov has to earn my trust. Constant vigilance and all that."

"Yeah," Hermione sighed tiredly.

"Are you sure you're okay."

"I said I was fine Ronald," she snapped.

"Well now I know you're not. Maybe you should go to the infirmary see Hannah, or Pomfrey."

"Madam Pomfrey," Hermione corrected absently. "I'm just tired Ron. It's been a long few weeks.

Ron agreed. He limped away and sank into his customary station. "But it's more than that. You had Priori Incantatem with yourself. Who knows what effect…"

"Are you lecturing me on Magic?" Hermione asked sharply.

"If I have to." Ron didn't back down. "Sometimes you're worse than Harry."

Hermione glared at him for a moment, before sagging exhausted.

"Any word on Tonks?" He asked.

"She's still unconscious, but Pomfrey…Madam Pomfrey is optimistic." Hermione ignored his teasing grim. "As soon as Harry and Ginny get back we need to have a meeting. Events are moving too quickly."

"There's at least twenty Ward Specialists doing Merlin knows what. Even Bill is having trouble following them."

"I know, and something's bothering me about Gavrilov. I feel I should know that name." Hermione yawned.

"Go," Ron said. "Get some rest. I'll wake you when they get back."

Hermione looked ready to protest. "What about you?" She asked.

"I won't be able to sleep." He rubbed his leg smiling ruefully. Hermione frowned.

"Here, let me help." She drew her wand to cast a minor healing charm. At most it would have temporarily numbed the pain, but as she began to cast the spell her magic surged unexpectedly. Power burned down her arms into her finger at last erupting into her wand. The wood shattered and splintered in her hand and sent her sprawling. She stared in shock as the remnants of her wand slipped through her fingers. Only sawdust remained.

"Still say you're okay?" Ron asked.

Corporal Rayne glanced around the curiously. Ms. Granger's office was almost obsessively neat. The walls were lined with books, and her desk was organized into precise piles. Her quill and ink sat at a perfect angle. Everything was in its place. The door swung open quietly and he snapped to attention, as she entered.

"Please have a seat," she said with a brisk nod.

"Yes Ma'am." He sank into the plush leather gratefully.

"You know you could call me Ms. Granger. I am, after all, a civilian." She sat behind her desk.

"Yes Ma'am," he agreed. She was well known for her efforts on behalf of Muggles and Muggle-borns and he was deeply grateful. She was also the Premier's right hand, and it paid to tread lightly. She smirked, as if she knew what he was thinking.

"You did well today."

"Thank you Ma'am, but I didn't do it alone. Goodwin is still in the hospital."

"Yes. I understand it'll take a few days to regrow the bones in his arm. Very nasty." She broke off coughing. "I intend to recommend you and your team for the Order of Merlin, Third Class," she continued. Rayne blinked in shock. In the history of the Hegemony, no Muggle had been awarded the Order of Merlin.

"Are you sure, Ma'am?"

"You rescued the Premier, Corporal, where two sets of elite wizards failed. You are a hero, and the Hegemony rewards its heroes."

"But…" He frowned. Legally speaking Muggles had all the rights afforded Wizard-Kind. In reality, they were still seen by most as inferior, as interlopers. In the aftermath of the Pureblood Insurrection, blatant prejudice had been practically eliminated, but there would be many who would not look kindly on an upstart Muggle. After all, Churchill had been content with a Star of Dumbledore, why should he be any different. "Won't there be…uh…difficulties?" He asked.

"Oh definitely," she smiled. "It will certainly stir up resentment. There might even be a riot or two." She didn't seem too concerned with the idea, and Rayne realized with a start, that she was counting on it. He hid a grimace. Politics always gave him a headache.

"Will that be all Ma'am?"

"Just one more thing. I'm appointing you o the Premier's personal guard."

"But only officers…"

"Yes I know." She rose somewhat unsteadily and smiled coldly. "Congratulations Lieutenant Rayne." He shook her hand mechanically. Her skin was burning up, and he briefly considered asking after her health, but that would have been impertinent. "You may go," she said. Rayne snapped a perfect salute and marched towards the door. A dull thud brought him up short. He turned. Ms. Granger had collapsed. She lay motionless on the floor.

Harold watched the globe spin round and round. "I don't understand how Albus could have let things fall apart, in any world," he said. "And that's another thing. There was no mention of Gellert. None at all." He ran his hand through his hair. "There is something seriously wrong with that world, and Voldemort's victory is just a symptom. Harold closed his eyes." Ron was alive," he said softly. "Heavily scarred, but very much alive."

"I'm sorry," Ariana said.

"Don't be. I've dealt with my grief."

"Has Hermione."

"Her grief is her own." Harold's tone left no room for discussion. "Their Order is running around like a headless chicken, barely alive." He sighed. "Events are moving too quickly."

"You control events, Harold. They do not control you."

"So Gellert said incessantly."

"Have you spoken to him?" Ariana asked.

"Gellert Grindelwald is dead," Harold said sharply.

"You know what I meant." He turned and glared at her, but she did not flinch. Harold blinked first.

"I will not consult with portraits," he said. "I will not pretend that they are anything more than paint and magic. The truth is Albus and Gellert are dead. Everything else is a lie." Ariana studied him silently. She remembered what had happened when he met his parents' portraits. She remembered the pain.

"Alright," she said. "What are you going to do?"

"What I must," he answered. "I am their son, if not by blood then by upbringing." He wandered over and sat beside her. "Tell me I'm doing the right thing." His voice was hungry, pleading. She reached out and took his hand in hers.

"You're a good boy Harold. You could never let anyone sufferer in tyranny and anarchy."

"No," he whispered. "Never." He leaned down to kiss her forehead. It was time to take charge. There was work to do. He stood and straightened his robes. "Never."


	8. Sowing Chaos

7

Chapter Eight: Sowing Chaos 

The wind whistled harsh and cold through the Blackmoor Labor Camp. Huddling in a corner, Colin shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. He hadn't eaten all week, even if you could consider the glop they were occasionally fed as food. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could see the Hogwart's feasts of old. Food stretching as far as the eye could see, but no matter how hard he tried he could not recall the taste, not of meat or potatoes or pudding, not even the taste of pumpkin juice. The welfare of mudbloods was not a priority for the new government.

The former Intendant had delighted in liberal use of the Cruciatus Curse, but the Dark Lord had decided that his new and everlasting reign should have monuments and buildings worthy of it. For that he required workers. Voldemort's new utopia would be built from the sweat and blood of his enemies, from the mudbloods and the blood traitors. Blackmoor was not a torture camp. Those were located elsewhere, designed for those too dangerous, or merely unable to work. Colin's brother had been handed over to Bellatrix Lestrange's tender mercies, when he had collapsed from exhaustion. That had been months ago, perhaps even a year. He was probably dead by now, or worse a gibbering mess for Death Eaters to laugh over at diner parties. The thought should have angered Colin, but he could not muster the energy. Not any more. He was just tired, so bone achingly tired. A fitful sleep claimed him. Perhaps he would awake in a Lestrange Dungeon, but Colin couldn't bring himself to care.

***

Ron jumped up and down experimentally. There was no pain. He felt…fine, better even. He couldn't quite grasp the concept.

"Would you keep still," snapped Madam Pomfrey. Ron smiled apologetically. "Your leg appears to be fully healed," she said after performing a series of diagnostic charms. "How does it feel?"

"Wonderful," Ron said fighting back a grin.

"I'm not surprised. Your leg is younger than the rest of you."

"Younger?" He rubbed his knee experimentally. "Is that even possible?"

"Considering the amount of curse scarring, that your injury was healed at all is a miracle," Pomfrey said. Ron frowned and glanced over at Hermione perched on another bed trying to keep her hands from shaking. Harry and Ginny hovered around her speaking in soft voices.

"How is she?" Ron asked worriedly.

"Physically and magically she seems perfectly fine."

"She destroyed her bloody wand doing a simple spell! Hell, she sent my leg back to the Fudge years. How is that perfectly fine?"

"I am well aware of what happened, Mr. Weasley. I have cast all the diagnostic spells and charms I know of with no result." She sighed. "I have no idea what's wrong with her." The doors of the makeshift infirmary flung open to admit Flitwick and Gavrilov. They made a strange pair, two old men one tall and sallow, the other short and flushed. Strangely attempting to kill each other had not prevented a strange kind of camaraderie from developing between them.

"What are you doing here?" Ron practically snarled jumping to his feet with an agility he had not possessed in years.

"I heard about the…incident," Gavrilov replied levelly ignoring the tone. "I thought I would see if every one was alright. In fact you seem to have profited greatly, Mr. Weasley."

"Now see here…"

"I did not come here to quarrel," interrupted Gavrilov. "Our own Ms. Granger is also suffering the effects of their little duel. Perhaps in future it would be best if we did not attack our doppelgangers."

"She has trouble controlling her magic too?" Hermione asked.

"No," answered Gavrilov. "She's in a coma."

***

Harold Potter watched as the best and the brightest healers and doctors bustled about the comatose body of his best friend. The greatest medical minds, both muggle and wizard alike, were trying desperately to make some progress, to find anything at all that could help. They were all failing. They tried to hide it of course, but Harold had studied deception at the feet of a master. No one had any idea what was wrong. They wouldn't tell him that, not exactly. They would couch their uncertainty beneath the convoluted medical jargon common to muggle and wizard alike, and he would allow them their pretext for now. Fear could be a powerful motivator, but Harold did not deem it the appropriate method for healers.

A polite cough pulled him from his morbid thoughts. Harold had heard the other man's approach, and felt the man's growing impatience.

"Ah Cornelius," Harold said without turning. "When did you get here?"

"I came as soon as I could," Cornelius Fudge replied.

"Of course you did," Harold said soothingly. "You always were a diligent public servant."

"Thank you Mr. Potter." Cornelius paused delicately. "I wasn't sure I should come down, when I heard about Ms. Granger, but you're summons seemed urgent."

"Indeed, I'm sure, considering their assembled medical know-how, that Ms. Granger will be up and about in no time. The world, however, stops for no man or woman, not even her." Harold finally turned to face Cornelius. The portly little man was much the same, except perhaps a little more portly and his rumpled grey hair was perhaps a little more rumpled. His pinstriped suit we're as pressed and neat as ever, although his characteristic lime green bowler hat was shabbier then it had been in their last meeting. "Tell me Cornelius," Harold continued. "How's…retirement been treating you?"

"Well enough," Fudge replied. "I can't complain."

"No," Harold agreed pleasantly. "You can't. In any case, I invited you here because the world will shortly be changing in new and previously unimaginable ways and I want you to be a part of it. I have an assignment for you, if you'll take it."

"An assignment?"  
"One which requires skill, cunning and foresight. Naturally I immediately thought of you."

"You're too kind but…"

"Yes I am." Harold grinned.

Fudge licked his lips nervously. "It is an honor, of course, but as you pointed out I am retired."

"Must be nice," Harold interrupted, " the peace and quiet. No crises or press. Lots of time for hobbies and such, gardening for example, or I don't know…writing memoirs."

"Is that what this is about?"

"Hmm?"

"Allow me to assure you, Mr. Potter, that I will include nothing classified or slanderous in my book."

"Well I would certainly hope not. After all, Albus did consider you a close personal friend." Harold smiled innocently.

"I…uh…Mr. Potter I…"

"I would like to honor that friendship if I may," Harold continued, ignoring Fudge's incoherent muttering. "If you were to be successful in your assignment, I would personally endorse your return to politics."

"Endorse?" Fudge stared at Harold trying to gage his sincerity. "You would do that for me?"

"Anything for a friend of Albus," Harold said lightly. "I believe the chancellorship will be open in a couple of years. You would of course have to win the election yourself, fair and square."

"The election," Fudge repeated as if in a trance. "Mr. Potter…Premier…sir…I don't know what to say."

"Oh I think you do, and please call me Harold."

***

Colin jolted awake. He could hear screaming and shouting. He glanced around blearily. The guardhouse was in flames. Fellow prisoners rushed by him, some sprinting, others limping, a few even crawled. Where were they going? More importantly, why hadn't the guards stopped them? Colin rose to his feet slowly and unsteadily. He followed his compatriot's progress with his eyes. He gasped in shock. The fence, the guarded warded fence was broken. There was a way out, a chance of escape. Something foreign flowed through him, an unlooked for hope. The Order had returned at last, but no, even when Colin had been captured the Order had already been falling apart. Movement caught his eye. He could see grey robed figures, their faces obscured by charms, meeting the Death Eaters spell for spell. They were everywhere. No one fought the Death Eaters like this anymore, not in mass. Who were they?

"Don't just stand there you bloody idiot!" Colin recoiled. A grey figure was standing right to him. He hadn't even heard the approach. "Run!" The figure commanded. "We can't hold them off forever."

Colin frowned. There was something familiar about the voice, but it couldn't be. "Dennis," he breathed, but the figure was already gone. Colin shook his head. It was just a trick of the mind, but thought filled him with renewed hope. Perhaps his brother was still somehow alive. If he was, Colin would rescue him, and if he wasn't there was always revenge. He felt a new burst of burst of strength, a strength he never thought possible, and he ran. He ran for the gap in the fence, for freedom, for revenge. Colin Creevey was free.


End file.
